As far as I’m concerned, the first man and woman aren’t named Adam and Eve. No — they go by Mother and Father.
Mother and Father aren’t their real names either. It’s just easier to paint them in such simplistic roles in my mind, even though I’m no longer a child who views the world straightforwardly. It’s easier to hide the complexity of these two people behind the roles they played in my life. If I were to dive into what makes them into the complicated people they are now, if I were to study their psyche and work out what shaped them into who they are, it would make forgiveness come easier. And I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not yet, at least.
Mother’s role is simple — she stays even though Father leaves. She hides his absence from us by taking on the roles he was meant to play. She fills up the holes and hopes it is enough. She is always present. She is at every school competition, every recital, every graduation ceremony. She is so undeniably there that I often feel her breath on my neck. But I also learned that though she stays, she also disappears. She has stretched herself too much, pulled herself apart in two different directions in an attempt to make up for Father’s shortcomings, until she has become sheer thin. She will be sitting at the dining table, her eyes glazed over some screen, and she will answer, “Uh huh,” “Yes,” and “Okay.” I can touch her, hug her, and kiss her, but my heart that longs to reach out can never pierce through the specter she has become. And yet, when she tucks me under a blanket at night and kisses me on the forehead, I silently thank God that at least she’s a ghost I can touch. Sometimes, I wonder if she only stays because no one else will.
Father, on the other hand, leaves and never stays. He disappears, and disappears, and disappears. He is a wild animal, untamed and hungry for companionship. But he knows no other way, so he bites and leaves the hand that comes too near. At first, he says that he leaves because he provides. The trouble with lies is that eventually you lose track and fail to keep them up. When he is present, he says he loves me. Then I watch him wash his face in the sink and stare at the mirror too long. I see in his eyes what I see when he looks at me. And I figure out why he leaves. He is afraid of his image, and he looks for pretty faces to replace the fear of loneliness in his chest. I realize why he never stays — not just because he has moved on from Mother’s pretty face and has found another, but also because he can’t bear to look at me too long. I am just another reminder of his attempts to convince the world (and himself) that he knows how to love.
Half of me is hers, and the other half is his. I tried to put on the clothes they left behind. Mother’s constant silence and presence cling too tight on my waist. The collar digs into my neck, and I cannot breathe. I stay quiet when a friend insults and yells at me. I cling tightly to a boy who only hurts me and then runs. Then I try on Father’s absence and his lies of love. They hang too loose on my frame. The huge sleeves get in the way of my hands. I tell a friend that I love them, and all is fine, only to never talk to them again. I look in the mirror and make marks on my body until I can’t recognize myself anymore.
Now, I decide I am done playing dress up. Mother’s silence and presence and Father’s absence and lies don’t fit me at all. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending they do just so I could feel closer to them. I’m a whole made of half of each of them. I haven’t made up my mind yet whether I’m the best or the worst of both. I find that there’s resentment and loneliness in my pockets. I know these are heirlooms they left, and it doesn’t feel right to pawn them off to another or simply leave them behind when they’ve been part of me for so long.
Perhaps it’s unfair to simplify them into such categories, to view them only as Father and Mother, and not Adam and Eve. Perhaps I should work harder to understand why they are the way they are. Maybe I should accept that they did truly love me in their own ways, even if their love didn’t fit the love that I needed.
But for now, I’ll let them be Father and Mother, because though I’m grown, I still have my wounded child’s heart. And a child does not ask questions, but instead accepts things as they are, because how could they not? They know no other way.
I know no other way.